Advisor's Council
by Shadow Griffin
Summary: The rain had washed away Erestor's uncertainty long enough for him to seek the lord out. For that, Elrond was grateful. Follows 'Bite Back' but can stand alone.


Woot! Here we go: twenty-three minutes of work in a thunderstorm gives you this! I just felt like writing something and this is the first thing that I was able to build off of. Keep in mind that this is the un-edited version, meaning that I didn't go through and add words to help it flow better. I don't have time with this financial aid junk that I have to do for college. But I still think it turned out nice.

**Summary: **The rain washed away the uncertainty just long enough for Erestor to seek him out. For that, Elrond was grateful.

**Disclaimer:** SSDD (same stuff, different day). Me no own, you no sue, k?

Well, I hope you all enjoy it and please leave CONSTRUCTIVE criticism!

This follows 'Bite Back', but it can definetly stand alone.

Yours,

~Eliana

**IOIOIOIOI**

Such things were not meant to be admired, the advisor told himself as he sat just inside the doors of his balcony, at least by what others say, that is.

The thunderstorm had been raging for a few hours when the high advisor of Elrond told himself that as he quietly observed the angry weather.

Thunder had a way of scaring people, sending young elflings shivering under the covers and the horses sprinting for the cover of the barns as the sky let out its mighty roars. Lighting would flash menacingly across the heavens, lighting up the figures of the angry clouds above it as it streaked about, stringing itself like spider web across the finest dark wool. People would take one glance of lightning and go scurrying as far into their homes as possible, huddling in the center of their houses as though the windowless walls around them would keep the horrid beams away.

Erestor thought it was beautiful. The Valar were artists, swinging their mighty brushes across the sky to bring about the clouds and lighting them up with the beams of the heavens, drawing great lines across the dark abyss as they had once done themselves. The rain saturated the earth and brought about life, making the art of the holy ones a completed circle. Their music rumbled with power and with every stroke reminded those on Middle Earth of the power that Arda could never fully grasp.

It was all forms of art in one: the painting of the clouds, the dancing of wind and lightning, the singing of the thunder, and the drawing of life from what was once nothing but barren ground – it was the saving grace that Erestor found in his lonely existence. Most of the elves in Imladris were tucked away safely within their homes, lighting fires, telling stories, holding their children, and eating their meals- but Erestor was not like most.

He was, by nature, a loner. And so now he found himself, black hair and robes being jostled in the wind as he sat in a chair within his rooms, relaxing before the balcony doors that were stung open so that the rain and wind and thunder could enter without any obstacle. The fire in the fireplace was dead, the candles sat without life, and the many tomes and papers upon the advisor's desk in the next room over were being strewn about by the harsh winds that pulled them.

Every time it rained Erestor found himself here, perched in his chair like a little elfling and watching the rain fall upon the stone balcony as though it held the secrets of his life and future. Of course that idea was pure folly, but one can never let the mind always override the conscience – such things only let to sadness and bitter cold.

Sadness – now that was a feeling that Erestor knew well. He was sad and cold all the time and, despite what Glorfindel adamantly declared, he had a good reason for it.

"Sometimes 'tis best to mourn your life rather than the death of others," he had told the Seneschal one day, "There are things in my past that I chose to not relive – truly horrible things. But 'tis not your business nor anyone else's but my own."

Glorfindel had wanted to push the subject then but his lord's gaze stabbed him deeply with an air of discipline, and so the Seneschal had simply bowed and then mumbled something incoherent before leaving the room. That incident was one of many that fueled Erestor's ill-mannered feelings of the blonde elf, thus leading him to avoid the other at any and all cost. Where Elrond knew somewhat what he had lived through and understood his need of privacy, the Balrog-slayer felt no such understanding and seemed to have made a game out of trying to pester the smaller elf out of his self-imposed shell. It didn't bode well for either of them.

A clap of thunder drew the elf out of his musings, black eyes staring out at the swaying trees as they were plastered with rain. The rumblings of the sky seemed so similar to the ones that had cascaded through the ground when the armies marched on Mount Doom those many years ago. The mountain was alive, growling and snarling and spewing hot rock and lava everywhere as Erestor had thundered forth with his garrison as ordered by his lord Gil-galad. More than Sauron himself did the mountain scare the advisor. More than every darkness on Middle Earth combined did that mountain bear power – such evil power that it would creep right into your soul and draw out your life, leaving you breathless and on your knees before an enemy.

It was after Isildur had taken the Ring for himself that the skies cried and Gil-galad found his wounded friend, buried amidst the piles and piles of dead. It was the tears of the Valar that saved Erestor's life by washing the molten ash from his wounded legs and drawing him out of his unconsciousness by tapping him on his cheek. The rain that fell on his balcony now was the same rain that had spared him his life, and for that Erestor was grateful.

The droplets had slowed now down to only shavings dropping from the trees. A few birds hiding within the bushes and leaves found the courage to sing and began to twitter softly in wake of the storm that had just come through. A gentle breeze brushed through the dark strands of Erestor's hair and allowed him to release a sigh in contentment. If nothing else, at least the great beauties of nature still granted him comfort.

Elrond had tried many times to get his friend to simply open up, but Erestor was stiff-necked and silent (just as he had been almost a millennium ago when he and Gil-galad had taken him out of that horrid place). Not much had changed over those many years. And yet Erestor felt himself drawing marginally closer and closer to the offer that his lord had made him not so long ago, finding that… perhaps speaking to his king wouldn't be so bad. He never told anyone anything and the prospect of comfort was a very foreign thing to the ellon – and yet he found himself almost willing to accept it.

It wasn't that Erestor feared his past – he had learned from Gil-galad that to fear a moment only meant to bow to those that hadn't come yet. His past was his own and nothing would change it, but his past made him into a cold being – he had once called himself a damned being but his Lord Elrond would hear nothing of it and had quickly gone about erasing the notion. To fear a moment only increased the weariness of the soul. And that would lead to his fading.

Too long had Erestor lived only to fear what was yet to come. Too long had he relived those days in his mind, pushing himself away from anything that would bring up the images. Too long had the advisor locked himself away from any sword or dagger for fear that he might hurt someone.

The only weapon he kept anywhere near him was the golden scabbard that had been presented to him on the day of his 'rebirth' (or so he called it) by Lord Gil-galad. The scabbard represented his freedom, his knowledge, his will – and so Erestor kept it, safely tucking it away inside his cherry wood desk where no one ever dared venture lest they desired to die a slow and painful death by the hand of the high councilor. The scabbard was the only weapon he had touched in well over three hundred years.

The nearest time before then was the fight of the Last Alliance on the slope of that forever dreaded mountain. A young human by the name of Boromir had said it at the Council earlier that day (and grudgingly Erestor admitted to himself that he quite agreed with the man): "There is an evil there that does not sleep. It is a barren wasteland riddled with fire and ash and dust."

And forever did it burn itself in your mind after you had left it. It was still there now, even after the fellowship left. In his heart, Erestor had wanted to stand, pledging himself to protect Frodo so that he may bear the One Ring to Mordor without harm – he could do that just as he had before. But unseen by the council did Elrond reach out and ever-so-lightly put his hand on his advisor's tense knee, preventing the other from standing and making such a declaration. Erestor's heart was in the right place but they both knew that sending him on that kind of journey would have caused accidents beyond either of their controls. The mind is a dangerous thing.

Even though this particular mind had outwitted every person it came up against, Elrond knew that the very sound of a sword being drawn sent his advisor whirling back to his natural reactions and the wielder of the weapon stood no chance. They couldn't risk that.

Knock, knock.

Erestor shook his head to clear his mind and took a sudden step back, realizing suddenly that he was in front of his lord's chamber door. How exactly had he gotten here?

Black eyes looked upward for a moment as though looking for some sign on the ceiling of the torch-lit hallway before shaking his head again, turning on his heel to leave.

"Enter!" a call bade from the room he had just requested to enter.

The advisor froze, his head turning back enough to stare at the royal oak door as if he feared it would jump up and bite him suddenly. It made no move so he turned his head and continued on his way again, tensing and stopping suddenly in place when his lord's voice called his attention from the now open doorway.

"Erestor?"

Erestor gulped. He had hoped to get out of the area unnoticed. Bowing his head slightly, he stared down at his legs and feet and mumbled a weak "curse you" at them for bringing him into this situation without his consent.

"Erestor?" Elrond called again, this time a bit louder.

With a non-confident intake of breath, the high councilor turned himself around and gave a gracious bow to his lord.

"My Lord Elrond," he stated quietly as he straightened himself but still did not meet the healer's eyes.

"Erestor," Lord Elrond admonished slightly, "I have told you that you do not have to do that. And what is it that I can do for you tonight?"

"I…" Erestor's voice trailed off. Was this really what he wanted to do? There was no going back after this. Taking in a calming breath, he tried to speak his thoughts.

"I…. I wondered if your offer was still open, my lord."

"My offer?"

Ashen eyes reflected the dumbfounded expression that crossed Elrond's face as he tried to remember exactly what it was that his advisor and friend was talking about. Drawing a blank, he looked back to the other elf, offering him a calming and apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, Erestor, my mind isn't where it should be – it dwells with the darkness of late. Of what offer do you speak, mellon nin?"

The shifted of the others weight on his feet was the only hint that Elrond needed that Erestor was nervous – he could practically hear his advisor's heart thudding in his chest from down the hall!

"The offer I speak of sir was made years ago sire, 'tis my fault for forgetting the time lapse," Erestor told him in his usual quiet voice.

"That is fine, my friend, but I'm afraid I still do not remember. Of what subject was the matter I gave you an offer on?"

"… to talk."

If Elrond Peredhel had ever been more surprised about anything in his long years it wasn't obvious when he tilted his head, his eyes slowly blinking as the ever-wise mind finally grasped onto the soft-spoken words. Had Erestor honestly taken that first huge step that he had been denying himself for millennia and summoned the courage to speak to his friend? It took the elf lord a moment before he spoke, his voice ever so gentle as though he were trying to calm one of his children when they were younger.

"Of course it is. It always has been," he told his friend quietly, softening his gaze so that the other could see the sincerity and concern in his eyes.

Erestor didn't speak, instead listening to the few resonant drops of rain spatter across the stone roof of the palace as though they were speaking to him. It was in the sharp mind of Elrond Peredhel that the sudden realization came to dawn – it was time to play a card from Erestor's hand instead of his own.

"If I recall correctly," his lord's voice snapped Erestor out of his stupor and drew his attention, "you told me of something that an author wrote once. It flowed similar to: 'To appear wise, one must talk; to be wise, one must listen'. Correct?"

The black head bobbed in agreement.

"I am here, Erestor," his lord told him firmly, "I am willing to listen – but only if you are willing to speak."

Elrond stepped out of the doorway and into the hall, one hand and arm gesturing into his chambers while the other was held open to Erestor. The raven haired ellon looked a bit unsure for a long moment's time, finding solace in the fact that Elrond hadn't even batted an eyelash at the fact that his advisor was neither accepting nor declining his offer. It was through that calm and understanding that Erestor found the strength to finally step forward, allowing his lord's hand the place itself upon his back and lead him calmly into the other's chambers.

The royal oak door closed quietly behind them, letting no utterance from the chamber to leave.

Outside, the rain began again, falling in gentle mists that washed the mud from the grey walls of Imladris, draining it away into the ever-growing earth.

**IOIOIOIOIO**

And that's that! Hope you enjoyed it! Please read and review.


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